


Crown of Creation

by Fontainebleau



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: And a lot of Jefferson Airplane references, Angst and Fluff, M/M, Mention of Minor Character Death, Modern AU - Coffeeshop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 05:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9803585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fontainebleau/pseuds/Fontainebleau
Summary: Billy shakes his head blankly and Goodnight beams at him with an evangelist’s passion. ‘Can it be, my friend, that you are unacquainted with the psychedelic majesty that is Jefferson Airplane?’‘It can,’ says Billy gravely, ‘though I sense that may soon be changing.’





	

‘How much relevant experience do you have?’ asks Goodnight, hoping that the answer could yet be ‘extensive’. This is the fourth of his four potential recruits and frankly things are looking thin. The first two were respectively too flaky and not even marginally hygienic enough, while the third guy with the impressive sleeve tattoos would have been perfect if he could have started straight away, but Antonia’s sudden departure has left him with an immediate problem. Number four doesn’t on the face of it seem particularly suitable either: Billy (an unlikely name, but then who is he to judge?) is all sharp planes, high cheekbones and hair pulled back in a knot; he’s wearing a white shirt and black jeans, simple and neutral, yet carried with style. He seems remarkably polished for a man looking to work at Crown of Creation Coffee.

Goodnight’s dressed to blend in with his shop in jeans and a T-shirt with the _Long John Silver_ cigarbox logo. His beard and hair are close-cut rather than 60s unkempt, but he fits in far better against the background of hand-woven cushions, rainbow mugs and framed posters advertising long-ago gigs at the Avalon Ballroom and the Fillmore East by the Quicksilver Messenger Service and the Great Society. Though he’s closed up for the day sinuous music still pools from the speakers, curling like river water; coffee’s coffee wherever you go, but Crown of Creation, he likes to think, is for the connoisseur.

Billy looks dubious. ‘I can’t claim to be a barista as such, but I’ve worked in this kind of place before. Well, not exactly this kind’ – he glances eloquently around the room – ‘but similar.’

‘It’s hardly rocket science,’ agrees Goodnight, ‘but can you commit to a regular schedule? I’m a one-man band right now and I need someone reliable for the afternoons. You’re not, for instance, an aspiring actor who’s going to need time off for auditions and then bail without notice when you get cast as Desdemona in a gender-reversed _Othello_?’

He expects that to raise a flash of humour ( _and thanks for that one, Antonia_ ), but Billy’s reaction, if there is one, is too faint to be seen. ‘No, I’m a grad student, and I can fix my hours to be regular. I can give you my professor’s name if you need a reference.’

‘In that case,’ says Goodnight, ‘terms as stated, and let’s give it a couple of weeks’ trial. You can call me Goody.’ He holds out his hand. 

Billy’s hand is fine-boned, his touch warm and firm, but he doesn’t answer Goodnight’s welcoming smile, just nods in agreement. ‘Come in at one tomorrow and we’ll get you set,’ says Goodnight, unperturbed. The cool composure is a little glacial, but then they’ve barely met. Not everyone’s all surface.

*

Once Billy’s gone Goodnight locks the door behind him and walks the few blocks back to his apartment. It’s getting dark, and as he pauses to cross the street he can see opposite the warm lit-up window of Hinz’s; inside the tables are crowded with drinkers, friends getting together after work. He imagines himself pushing the door open to be engulfed by the swell of light and sound, waving to Sam and Emma and Matt at their regular table as he fetches his beer, setting his bag down and slipping into his usual place. 

He hesitates on the pavement: it’s almost as though he could walk in now and still find them there, Sam with a new lurid story from his day’s work, Emma and Matt squashed up side by side, newly in love, ready to tease him about his latest crush, the four of them full of the futures they were going to have. But what’s he going to do, sit on his own nursing a beer and watch a new bunch of friends sitting round their old table? Sam’s in Kansas with his mother so ill, Emma’s in Boston and Matt … _Well, whoever’s in there now, let’s hope they’re luckier than we were_. 

The light turns green, snapping him out of it, and he heads home: he’ll change his clothes, run, work the day’s pent-up tension out of his muscles and clear his mind, and then once he’s cooked dinner he’ll maybe call Emma: there’s not much he can do at this distance, and there’s not even much he can say, but he can at least listen.

*

Billy arrives right on time the next day, and after showing him where he can leave his stuff, Goodnight hands him an apron in an uncompromising shade of purple and says solemnly, ‘Join the flight’.

Billy holds it up to see the ballooning rainbow lettering across the front. ‘Purple? Seriously?’

‘Is that a deal-breaker?’ asks Goodnight.

‘No,’ says Billy in a tone that has a lot of _yes_ in it. When it’s on Goodnight would indeed concede that purple really isn’t his colour, but then flattering the barista’s looks is not its purpose.

‘You’ve got to admit it’s appropriate.’

‘To what?’

‘What it says. _Crown of Creation_.’

Billy shakes his head blankly and Goodnight beams at him with an evangelist’s passion. ‘Can it be, my friend, that you are unacquainted with the psychedelic majesty that is Jefferson Airplane?’

‘It can,’ says Billy gravely, ‘though I sense that may soon be changing.’

Goodnight bounces over to turn up the music. ‘Listen and learn, Billy.’

‘Bit of a closed book to me,’ says Billy, a wave of his hand taking in the decor, ‘Haight-Ashbury, flowers in your hair, be-ins.’

‘You sound suspiciously well-informed to me,’ says Goodnight cheerfully. ‘We embrace both the original and the Paisley Underground – by the end of the week you’ll be a convert, trust me.’

‘Isn’t that against the Geneva Convention?’ He’s never met anyone so deadpan.

 

‘So how did you come to run the place?’

It’s a story Goodnight likes to tell. ‘Well, a couple of years back I worked here myself, when it was a chain. Good coffee, y’know, but characterless. Identikit. Then the company lost interest and the franchise came up, so Sam and I raised the finance and took it on, made it into the kind of place we’d want to go.’

‘Sam?’

‘Friend from college: we ran it together to start with.’

‘So was the trippy thing his idea or yours?’

‘If you knew him you’d never suggest it: Sam works with the police – scene-of-crime officer. You should hear some of the stories he tells. Cast-iron stomach and ice-water in his veins.’

‘He’s a sleeping partner, then?’

‘Not exactly. He was around the place and he’d still be here, but about eighteen months back his family needed him and he went back to Kansas. Hoped he’d be back before too long, but that’s looking less likely now.’ 

Billy’s rattling away at the espresso machine like a pro. ‘So now it’s just you?’

‘And my afternoon help.’ Goodnight turns as he goes to open up. ‘I’ll admit it’s been tougher recently, and truth to tell I’m still wondering when it’ll turn round. But I reckon this town deserves an independent shop with decent music: you’ve gotta have faith.’

‘Decent music?’ Billy chokes on what might be a laugh.

‘I’m not employing you as a critic, Billy,’ warns Goodnight with mock severity. ‘Now.’ He turns over the _Open_ sign and winks: ‘Showtime.’

 

‘How busy is it likely to get?’

‘Oh, we have a good few regulars, though like I said, we could do with a little more trade. A lot of the customers come from the college, some faculty and the odd discerning student…’ His look dares Billy to comment. ‘It helps that we keep the service personal. Speaking of which…’

He gestures to the hefty man making his way to the counter, dressed in a grey guernsey that’s seen better days, out at one elbow and with a large hole at the collar, worn jeans and boots, exuberant beard covering half of his face. ‘Meet Jack, biologist and man of excellent taste in music. Jack, this is our new barista, Billy.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Jack in a gentle high-pitched voice completely at odds with his rugged exterior. ‘He’ll have a large vanilla latte and a lemon muffin, because sugar holds no fear for him,’ says Goodnight with a crooked smile.

‘Got to keep my strength up somehow,’ says Jack, ‘it’s a vicious existence out there.’

‘Biologist, was that? What’s your field?’ asks Billy politely as he assembles the order.

‘Mediterranean orchids,’ says Jack, nodding seriously.

Goodnight takes pity on Billy’s look of bafflement: ‘Always takes people aback, that – to look at him you’d expect grizzly bears or komodo dragons.'

‘There’s just as much aggression to be found in the botanical world,’ comments Jack, ‘some plants create their own space by poisoning the roots of their neighbours. Most battles in the plant kingdom are fought underground.’ He takes his latte. ‘Hey, Goody, I picked up a live Quicksilver bootleg from ’68: want to hear it?’

‘Sure do,’ says Goodnight.

‘It’s like a secret society,’ says Billy in wonder. ‘I honestly had no idea.’

‘Whole new world for you, Billy,’ says Goodnight as the opening chords come spiralling and meandering out.

 

That Billy’s a quick learner turns out to be true: he’s fast and efficient, but what he’s not is chatty. It’s a point of pride with Goodnight not just to know his customers’ names and their regular order, but to check on the progress of essays or tenure applications, to pick up on relationship dramas and Monday blues. Customers like Jack who actually come for the music are rare and he works hard to offer the personal touch to make them feel the place is theirs. He can’t help feeling that he and Billy make an odd contrast, him all talk and enthusiasm, Billy calm and largely silent, favouring everyone with the same enigmatic half-smile. 

Even so it’s a relief to have company so he can turn his back, have a break now and then. ‘You work all the shifts?’ asks Billy after a couple of days.  


‘Yes, this place is my baby – well, Sam’s and mine – so I like to keep tabs.’

‘If you want to go out, take an afternoon off, I can hold the fort.’

‘Wish we were busier so you couldn’t, but no, no need.’ Instead of meeting Billy’s eye Goodnight starts stacking glasses on the high self. ‘But thanks anyway.’ 

*

_‘Surely you can take the time for this, Goody?’ Matt was there promptly at two, tapping impatiently on the counter, not letting him off the hook, ‘C’mon, counterculture not capitalism, put your feet where your music is,’ and he was laughing, ‘are you our collective conscience?’ Matt, civil rights lawyer in the making, all about the righteous cause, and of course he shed his apron, left the keys with Mo and went out with him, Matt all serious, ‘Every person counts, Goody. You know clean energy matters, Big Gas is killing communities.’ Goodnight was a better person then, we all were._

_And the last time, Sam at the door, unexpected in the middle of the afternoon, his own smile dying at his expression; coffee left half-made, apron thrown blindly over the nearest chair; the drive to the hospital, the terrible wait for Emma to arrive, her face when she did. The day the points were thrown in front of a moving train; the day it all derailed._

*

If Billy’s not chatty with the customers, he’s also surprisingly reticent with Goodnight himself. It’s understandable to want to keep a distinction between work and the rest of his life, but Billy seems determined to give away as little as possible. For a short while Goodnight adopts a strategy of direct questioning, but the results prove to be unsettling. For instance, in answer to Goodnight’s good-natured query of, ‘Where d’you grow up? I’m no secret soon as I open my mouth, but where’s home for you?’ Billy replies matter-of-factly, ‘San Fran.’

‘Kidding me,’ says Goodnight in frank astonishment, ‘why didn’t you _say_?’

‘All a bit before my time,’ says Billy. ‘Not really my experience.’

‘We’re none of us old enough to have been there, Billy,’ says Goodnight patiently, ‘not even Jack. But really – weren’t you ever going to mention it?’

Billy looks at him. ‘Haight-Ashbury is just a tourist trap these days, you know?’

‘Of course I know,’ says Goodnight, nettled. ‘Any other information you’ve been withholding?’

A tiny frown crosses Billy’s face. ‘I’m not withholding anything. It’s just – not relevant.’

Things seem to have turned awkward fast, so Goodnight holds his hands up in surrender. ‘Still, though.’ 

 

Soon enough Billy adopts the obvious counter-strategy, realising that Goodnight can easily be diverted into talking about himself, and despite his best efforts he does find himself talking more than he intends, about his own home, about college, and about his friends. Under the influence of a few gentle conversational nudges he tells some of Sam’s stories, talks about trips they took or things they did, and he doesn’t quite realise how it’s been sounding until he finds himself explaining Sam’s departure again.

‘He went back to Kansas to pick things up for his folks: not that they pressured him – hell, his ma had been struggling on her own too long – but it’s not the kind of situation where there’s a choice.’

‘So what,’ says Billy, ‘you’re long-distance now?’

Goodnight snorts a laugh, surprised. ‘I give that impression? No, we’re just friends. Met on our first day at college, couldn’t be more different, but who can legislate for when you just get on with someone? But yes,’ he says, surprising himself at hearing it said out loud, ‘I do miss him.’

 

Naturally Goodnight undertakes a covert project to educate Billy musically. He thinks he detects a slightly warmer reception for the distressing 80s end of the Airplane oeuvre and panders shamelessly to it, to the discomfiture of his more discerning customers; when Jack walks in he stops dead and wrinkles his nose, demanding, ‘ _Rose Goes to Yale_? What’s got into you, Goody?’

‘Playing the long game,’ says Goodnight conspiratorially. ‘Just roll with it.’

‘Don’t I have enough to contend with?’ asks Jack mournfully, retreating to the furthest point from the speakers.

Billy raises his eyebrows in question. ‘He’s a purist,’ explains Goodnight.

‘I really have no idea what’s going on here, do I?’ says Billy. ‘So what’s his story?’

Goodnight gives him a look of surprise. ‘Jack?’

‘Apart from the orchids and the concern with aggression in plants: what do you know about him?’

‘Let’s see – he’s a widower, lost his wife a good while ago, been alone since. Has kids, but they seem to live abroad; started coming here because he likes the music.’

‘So when did you meet?’

‘Couple of days after we opened – someone put him on to us. Why d’you ask?’

‘I thought you wanted me to take an interest in the customers.’

‘Well, yes, but not so much in the abstract.’ Billy gives him a there’s-no-pleasing-some-people shrug.

 

Quite soon after Billy’s arrival Goodnight begins to register a definite uptick in trade. The shop’s always attracted one or two high-school students looking for an alternative to the alternative, but all of a sudden the teenagers who might have stopped in for a takeout are lingering by the counter, then claiming a table, spinning out their drinks and whispering. It’s plain that they’re not here for the music, though Goodnight reckons it may still work by osmosis; their regular forays to the counter and admiring glances make abundantly clear who’s the main attraction. 

Eventually he can’t resist commenting: ‘I see your fan club’s here.’

‘Fan club?’ Billy’s brow creases.

Goodnight gestures to a table of teens. ‘Come to get their daily fix of Billy the hot barista.’ Billy follows his gaze with comic alarm. ‘Don’t think I’m complaining: we’re turning over caramel frappucinos and brownies like there’s no tomorrow.’

‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

Goodnight claps him on the back. ‘It’s everything to do with you, and I for one am grateful.’

At that moment a young woman approaches the counter, and Billy backs away looking hunted. ‘Can I just–’ and he flees to the back of the shop. Grinning, Goodnight steps forward to serve the girl, disappointment writ large on her face. ‘Keira, isn’t it? What can I get for you?’

 

It’s not hard to see why Keira and her friends are so fascinated; Billy’s certainly something to look at, and Goodnight sometimes finds it difficult not to get distracted himself watching those elegant hands flicking deftly through their paces, not to join in gazing across the room at the sculpted lines of his back as he reaches up for a glass. Is he interested? He supposes he could be, theoretically. Practically, though, it’s a complication no one needs, and in any case how can he be interested in someone he barely knows? He and Billy work side by side for four-hour shifts most days and yet he knows nothing about him; prising even the most mundane facts out of him is still uphill work. He’s a grad student, but he’s never said what he does. He doesn’t appreciate Jefferson Airplane, but what music does he like? His clothes are carefully neutral, he never mentions his family or where he goes or anything. He’s like a wall of smooth metal on which it’s impossible to get a purchase. 

 

‘You really have Turkish coffee on your menu?’ Goodnight raises an eyebrow. He’d have noticed this man if he’d seen him in here before: tall, lithe and dark-eyed, white shirt a sharp contrast to his curly dark hair.

‘Black as night, sweet as sin and hot as hell,’ he smiles, and is rewarded with a sharp-toothed grin. The intensity of his gaze gives Goodnight a serious frisson and he’s about to enjoy asking for a name when his voice is cut off by a cry from behind him: ‘Vas! What are you doing here?’ and Goodnight’s hustled to one side as Billy leans across the counter to slap the guy’s shoulder.

‘Nice apron,’ smirks Vas. ‘Good colour on you.’

‘You want to find a foreign body in your coffee?’ grins Billy.

‘No health violations,’ interjects Goodnight, ‘but feel free to tip it down his shirt and charge him for another.’

‘Goody, Vasquez: Vas, Goody, my boss.’

This is a version of Billy he’s not seen before, face suddenly alive with humour and enthusiasm, and Goodnight’s heart sinks a little. ‘Your customer,’ he says, and stays at the front counter as Vasquez follows Billy round to take a stool, trying not to listen in to Billy’s uncharacteristic stream of conversation. _Gay, but with a super-hot boyfriend. I must look as disappointed as Keira._ Vasquez’ rumbling laugh and Billy’s lighter one give him a sharp stab of envy: has he even heard Billy laugh out loud before?

 

By the end of the shift Goodnight’s made up his mind. ‘Before you go,’ he says as Billy makes to collect his jacket, ‘I need a word.’

‘Yes,’ says Billy, fathomless calm back in place.

‘Now I’ve seen you so lively and charming, you’re going to need to up your game a little for the customers.’ Goodnight senses silence settle to frostiness, and smiles to take the sting out of it. ‘It’s important – we’re hardly the only coffeeshop in town, and we’re not big or central: a place like this stands or falls on customer loyalty. We have to make them feel wanted.’

‘Are you asking me to flirt with the teens?’

‘I’m not asking you to flirt with anyone, Billy, especially not if it’ll bring Vasquez’ wrath down on them. Just be a little friendlier.’

‘I’m always friendly,’ says Billy with what might be a flicker of hurt.

‘No, you’re polite. That’s different. See if you can bring some of the enthusiasm that you were just manifesting to normal service.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ says Billy neutrally, and Goodnight supposes that’s as good as he’ll get. 

He’s already on his way to fetch clean cups when Billy starts, ‘He’s not–’ and then stops again.

‘Yes?’

‘Vas isn’t my boyfriend. We’re – well, we’re not–’

‘Don’t tell me,' says Goodnight, amused, ‘it’s complicated.’

Billy rolls his eyes. ‘He has a boyfriend. And I don’t.’

 _Perfectly ambiguous_. ‘Well, sorry for jumping to conclusions. But I mean it about the customers – make like you like them.’ 

 

Billy’s friends, once they’ve run him to ground, turn out to be enthusiastic about Crown of Creation. Vasquez is the first to start stopping by regularly, tapping away at his laptop or lounging at the counter drinking what even Goodnight considers to be disturbing amounts of sugar and caffeine; he’s soon followed by a fresh-faced red-haired guy, Josh apparently, who talks a mile a minute and clearly considers himself hilarious. The odd thing about them, though, is that they’re all so good-looking: in this company Billy, all feline grace and cheekbones, isn’t even an outlier. Goodnight’s driven to breaking point the day that he finds himself serving an impressively muscular guy with a mohawk who wants a triple-shot americano; he’s just asked, ‘Why don’t I just get you a half-pint of kerosene and a lit match instead?’ and been rewarded with a silent smile when he hears the clatter of the machine and finds Billy already making it. ‘Way ahead of you, Red.’

‘Trying to make out you’re good at your job?’ snarks Red.

‘Of course,’ says Goodnight resignedly. ‘Going to introduce me?’

 

As soon as the shop empties he asks, ‘Dammit, Billy, are all your friends so ridiculously handsome?’

‘Josh isn’t ridiculously handsome, he’s just ridiculous,’ says Billy absently.

‘Seriously though.’

‘Like calls to like,’ says Billy, deadpan, and waits a beat. ‘I’d have thought you’d appreciate it.’ Goodnight flushes. ‘Good for trade, I mean.’

Is Billy teasing him? ‘Feel I’m being put in the shade in my own joint,’ he mutters, and there’s an edge of truth to it – not so much the A-list looks they seem to share, but the effect of watching Billy laughing along with them, unguarded and easy in a way that he never is alone.

‘Doesn’t seem likely to me,’ says Billy, and is suddenly busy at the machine; Goodnight looks at him, but his back is turned and clearly he has no more to say.

*

Once Billy’s left Goodnight stacks the chairs, mops the floor, locks up and walks back home. The sense of stasis is always at its most overwhelming in the moment when he turns the key and pauses in the doorway: everything just as he left it this morning, nothing moved through the day but the gently sifting dust. It seems all too possible to settle into stasis himself, energy and purpose leaching out of him as he crosses his own threshold. 

Time was, Goodnight’s place was where they all gravitated, evenings and weekends. Matt’s standing joke was that Goodnight kept his true freak hidden at home, the laid-back vibe of the shop just a cover for military-cadet-grade organisation in private. And it’s true, he likes to keep things shipshape: books lined up evenly, surfaces clear, clothes sorted and folded, boxes labelled in the refrigerator. Borderline obsessive, Matt used to say, but his apartment was still where they always ended up because Goody could be relied on to have food and cook it, to be able to find all the pieces for a game of Twilight Imperium, to have the film they’d been talking about to hand. They’d hang round the kitchen as he cooked, mixing up his carefully-marshalled jars, clatter up the steps on Saturday morning for a weekend’s gaming, turn up to find him at moments of sudden need, for an interview shirt or a wrench to fix the car.

Usually he relies on routine to carry him forward – change, run, shower, cook – but today he sinks onto his sofa, the room around him oppressively pristine, lifeless. The one or two dates he’s brought back recently seemed to find it unsettling, but he still keeps to the organisation even now it’s just him: partly it’s habit, partly a newly-realised fear that if you let go just one corner, an unstoppable wave of chaos will come swelling up to sweep away everything in its path. 

Diagnosis of his discontent is simple enough: his sense of vacancy, of loss, thrown into sharp relief by the image of Billy and his alpha-group friends, all energy and uncomplicated enthusiasm for life. What’s harder to name is the cure. He still tries to be there for them, Sam run ragged trying to shore up his family, Emma alone in the darkest hours, but the three of them have been left like splinters in the aftermath of an explosion, one moment of violence sending them flying apart, the distance between them expanding inexorably. And yes, compared to Emma, to Sam, what does he even have to complain about?

*

The next time Josh comes in he’s onto Goodnight immediately. ‘Hey, Goody, think we’re all smoking hot, do you?’

The mockery in his grin makes Goodnight flinch, and he swings round to look accusingly at Billy; Billy scowls at Josh and says, ‘You talk too much.’

‘He’s obviously not the only one,’ snaps Goodnight, but he’s damned if he’s going to let Josh embarrass him in his own shop. He looks him pointedly up and down, and announces, ‘I’m happy to reassure you, Joshua, that you are definitely not my type.’

Josh smirks. ‘Of course Billy’s the real looker; you should see him wearing his glasses.’ He drops his voice to an amorous purr, ‘He’s _impossibly cute_.’

Billy goes flaming red, a sight Goodnight might have enjoyed more under different circumstances. Josh snickers and Billy says, ‘Fuck _off_.’ 

 

As Josh swaggers away to join Vasquez, Billy throws Goodnight a desperate glance and Goodnight clamps down on his anger in favour of a rueful laugh. ‘Normally I’d say that your customer interactions still need work, but under the circumstances ….’

‘You’re the boss, can’t you ban him?’

‘Beats me why you’re friends with him.’

Billy nods silently towards the table where Josh is now leaning over Vasquez, hand in his hair; Vasquez reaches up in irritation to push him away.

‘Ah,’ says Goodnight, ‘permanent fixture, like termites?’

‘I’d say he’s better when you get to know him, but he really isn’t,’ says Billy. ‘Look, I’m sorry I –’

Goodnight holds up a hand. ‘Let’s save my self-esteem and not go there.’ 

He puts on _Volunteers_ to relieve his feelings and summons up rationality: Josh is a dick, they’re good customers, and no one’s in high school any more. How Billy feels about it is impossible to determine: his wall-of-metal exterior is back in evidence, telling Goodnight to leave well alone. No big deal.

 

On Wednesday afternoon they’re busy with a fair crowd of high-schoolers and students, plus Jack just in and waiting at the counter, when Goodnight notices that Billy, concentrating on the milk he’s steaming, is also singing along under his breath to the track that’s playing, a slight sway to his hips. It’s such a sweet victory that as Goodnight passes behind him he can’t resist leaning over and joining in the song right at his ear: _…data control and IBM, science is mankind’s brother …_ Billy starts violently and drops the latte he’s just made, coffee cascading over the counter and floor, his shout of ‘Shit!’ attracting attention across the room.

‘That was completely my fault,’ says Goodnight, contrite, ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump.’ His hand hovers over Billy’s shoulder. ‘Not scalded, are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ says Billy distantly, ‘I’ll get the mop.’

‘No, I’ll clean up,’ says Goodnight. ‘You take a break. Sorry.’

‘No big deal.’ He searches for a flicker of expression in Billy’s face, but there’s nothing there.

‘Personal space,’ observes Jack, who’s still at the counter watching his latte spread across the floor.

‘I take your point,’ says Goodnight, swabbing the counter and getting a fresh cup, ‘though really, something of a theoretical concept back here.’

 

After ten minutes it becomes obvious that Billy’s taken the offer of a break seriously, unwilling to re-emerge, so Goodnight calls, ‘Do some inventory while you’re there,’ to give him a reason to stay out of sight, and slings coffees with wry amusement at the teens as they come in: their darting gaze round the room and the small dissatisfied sigh when they realise he’s the only thing on offer. ‘Keira, Simon, regular? And you, sweetheart, what can I get for you? Got a name?’

When Red comes in wearing one of his ostentatiously sleeveless shirts, Goodnight for once is grateful. ‘Billy’s in the back,’ he says, ‘I’ll get him.’

‘If he’s ready,’ says Jack.

‘What happened?’ asks Red, ‘he hurt or something?’

‘Pride,’ says Jack sagely, ‘tenderest part.’ 

 

Goodnight sticks his head round the door of the kitchen and finds Billy methodically counting supplies. ‘Red’s here, going to come serve him?’

‘You could serve him – I’m not quite done.’

‘It’ll keep,’ says Goodnight impatiently, ‘and as you said, it’s hardly a big deal.’

Billy straightens up. ‘It doesn’t need me to get Red his rocket fuel.’

‘Usually,’ says Goodnight slowly, grinding it out as his anger builds, ‘Vas and Red and Josh make you jump to life. You know, you give the impression that they’re the only people who are actually real to you – it’s like all the rest of us are just grey and ghostly and not really there.’

Billy looks stricken. ‘You don’t understand…’

‘I think I do,’ says Goodnight.

Billy comes to the door and stops pointedly in front of him; Goodnight realises that he’s standing in the way and crams back awkwardly to create space for him to pass. Billy stands there for a moment before he moves, face impassive. ‘I’m sorry about what Josh said. About talking about you.’ 

When Billy’s gone Goodnight stands there running his hands through his hair. He doesn’t need this, though it is, he sees, largely self-inflicted. Well, why not take a break? He picks up his jacket, goes back out and says, ‘Keep things running while I step out? Won’t be long.’ Billy nods, self-contained as ever, and Goodnight shrugs on his jacket and pulls the door behind him. 

*

Coming back to the shop during opening hours is an unaccustomed experience, and as Goodnight pushes the door open he’s filled with an unexpectedly sharp sense of pride: it’s warm, lively, the hum of conversation backed by the harmonies of _After Bathing At Baxters_ , what he and Sam had hoped to achieve. He scans the room contentedly, then is brought up short by the unlikely sight of Jack spread out on one of the sofas apparently engrossed in conversation with Red. It’s so disconcerting that Goodnight sidles up to Billy behind the counter without thought and murmurs, ‘Did I just fall through a wormhole and come out in a parallel universe?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Billy, ‘try checking your taste in music.’

‘Nope, still impeccable,’ says Goodnight, ‘but really, Billy, what can they be talking about?’

‘Trees,’ says Billy, looking at him as though it’s self-evident.

‘Trees,’ echoes Goodnight blankly.

‘Red works with trees. He’s an arborist.’

‘Of course he is,’ says Goodnight, ‘It all makes sense. And Vasquez is an orchestral conductor and Josh is a minister of the church.’

‘Vasquez is a trainee architect,’ says Billy, looking at him quizzically, ‘and Josh, as I think I’ve said before, is an asshole.’

Goodnight shakes his head. ‘While we’re in the universe where you’re telling me things, what are you a grad student of?’

‘Philosophy,’ says Billy, ‘and whatever you’re going to say next, let it not be “Oh”.’

‘Explains why you work in a coffeeshop,’ says Goodnight, unable to resist, and Billy actually laughs. 'Walked into that one,’ and just for a moment, he thinks he sees a flash of connection in those dark eyes.

Billy looks back at Red, who’s pulling up pictures on his phone to show to Jack. ‘You seem to have had some strange ideas about us.’

‘Yeah, well,’ says Goodnight, awkward again, ‘since my shop seems to run better when I’m not here, make me a double macchiato and don’t go to town on the foam. I’ll be over there.’

 

By the time he’s at the corner table with his cup _Rejoyce_ has just begun and he’s settling in for the long haul when Jack pushes himself up from the sofa and weaves his way through the tables to join him. ‘May I?’ he asks formally, and Goodnight says, ‘Please,’ intrigued as always by his combination of power and delicacy.

‘Haven’t asked after Sam in a while,’ says Jack, sitting down. ‘How’s he doing?’

‘You know how he is, never complains, but reading between the lines, it’s hard. I don’t think she has that much longer.’

‘Give him my sympathy,’ says Jack, ‘and tell him he’s doing the right thing. He’ll be glad later.’

‘Will do,’ says Goodnight, ‘I know he’ll appreciate it,’ then, unable to restrain his curiosity, ‘you seem to be getting on with Red.’

‘He’s a nice lad, has some interesting ideas,’ says Jack, sipping his latte. ‘Very interested in sequoias. They’re all worth talking to, those boys. Billy too.’

‘He talks to you?’ asks Goodnight in surprise.

‘Well, sure, ‘says Jack benevolently, ‘just go easy on him,’ and Goodnight sighs. ‘Does he need protecting from me?’

Jack obviously has advice he wants to impart: ‘I know times have been tough, Goody, but remember, _in the heart of the volcano…_ ’

‘ _…the future is born_. Didn’t think you liked the later stuff.’

‘Coming round to the view that it’s not entirely without merit.’

‘Looks like I may have been working on the wrong person,’ says Goodnight, feeling unaccountably guilty.

‘Evolution – unstoppable force. Take it from me.’ Jack drains his mug. ‘Gotta go: soil acidification samples wait for no man.’ Goodnight tips his own cup in farewell. 

 

Goodnight takes Jack’s advice and lets up on Billy, but despite his best intentions the lingering awkwardness doesn’t fade. After the moment’s rapprochement he’s as distant as ever, and Goodnight also finds himself uncomfortable at sliding past him in the limited space behind the counter. It’s clearly not tenable long-term, and he alternates between relief at the idea that he can declare the trial a failure and look for someone else and despair that he can’t even conduct a working relationship with a part-time barista.

 

When things come to a head late on Friday it’s over the most trivial of provocations: Goodnight’s standing making an espresso when he hears Billy asks Simon, ‘Cinnamon on your chai latte?’ Something inside him snaps, and as soon as Simon’s taken his cup and gone to sit down Goodnight grabs Billy unceremoniously by the sleeve to drag him out of earshot.

‘His name’s Simon. He’s been here the last three days in a row and he’s said _yes_ to that question each time you’ve asked him. Why can’t you do him the tiny favour of showing you remember?’

Billy looks at the hand until Goodnight lets go. ‘It’s embarrassing. I’m paid to serve him coffee, not to be his friend.’

‘I’m not asking you to make out with him; I’m asking you to stop pretending you don’t know him. What’s the harm in brightening up someone’s day? Remember their name. Remember their order. Show them you’re interested in them. Is that such a difficult thing?’

Billy’s head comes up in challenge. ‘I have trouble faking it.’

‘Then try harder,’ snaps Goodnight. ‘You’re paid to fake it. We all are. People don’t come to a coffeeshop for authenticity, they come for a macchiato and a muffin and they pay with cash.’

‘So it’s all an act? Friendly interest, flirtation, Southern charm?’

The question flicks him on the raw. ‘If I didn’t put on an act I’d have no custom and neither of us would work here. Unlike you I don’t expect the luxury of being true to myself.’

Billy’s still calm, but his jaw is twitching, the façade beginning to crack. ‘You don’t know what I’m like.’

‘Whose fault is that? Why can’t you cut the rest of us a goddamn break?’

‘Is this about Simon or about you?’

‘Back there again, are we?’ asks Goodnight in white rage.

They’re both too angry to keep their voices down. ‘I don’t understand what you want from me. I’m never going to be a natural at it like you.’

The comment seems to bypass his self-control. ‘Think this is natural? It’s something I put on with the apron and throw into the laundry at the end of the day. It may not cost me as much as you say it does you, but it stopped being part of me a while ago.’

This wasn’t the place he expected to end up, and Billy exhales sharply and looks down. ‘When you lost Sam?’

‘Sam? No, it was Matthew…’ Billy makes a small questioning sound and Goodnight rubs tiredly at his forehead. ‘No, he wasn’t my boyfriend either, don’t know why you think everyone is, he was Emma’s. They were going to get married. But he died, suddenly. And the rest of us – it all kind of fell apart.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Billy softly.

‘You didn’t know any of us,’ says Goodnight, and it comes out harsher than he meant.

‘I’m sorry it’s hard.’

‘Yeah, well,’ says Goodnight. 

 

When the last customer’s gone Goodnight takes the accounts to his favourite table in the corner, leaving Billy to clean up. He finds it hard to concentrate, uncomfortably aware of the sound of stacking cups and sweeping, and he puts on the contemplative second side of _Crown of Creation_ to cover the silence stretching awkwardly between them. Eventually Billy straightens up and comes to stand in front of the table. 

‘There’s something I need to say.’ The two sentences come out at exactly the same time.

‘After you,’ says Goodnight, sure of what he’s going to hear.

Billy lets out a gust of breath. ‘This was a trial, and it’s probably best if I go. I don’t seem able to meet the requirements, and you can probably still get Tattoo Guy instead.’

‘Sit down,’ says Goodnight mildly, pushing out a chair with his foot. ‘What I was going to say is first, I’m sorry, and second, we can try another tack. There’s no point forcing it: mean, moody and magnificent is also an approach. “Can you get a smile from saturnine Billy Rocks, the most enigmatic barista in town?’

He expects the joke to diffuse the tension, but it doesn’t: Billy stiffens again. Goodnight reaches out a hand. ‘Billy, you do a great job and seriously, I’ll get off your case. I don’t want you to leave.’

Billy looks him in the eye and says, ‘I’m sorry I was rude. And I know I’m not easy to … it’s hard to explain …’

Goodnight huffs out a laugh. ‘No need. This is the place for refugees from the modern world, I mean look at it.’ Billy relaxes a little and Goodnight is struck by a thought. ‘Hang on. Maybe this will put a different complexion on things.’ 

He goes out and comes back holding out a new apron in a muted burgundy, _Crown of Creation_ design still recognisable, but the wild ballooning letters altered to a more angular design.

‘A sudden lurch towards the conventional?’

‘Change is the thing that lets us know we’re alive, Billy,’ says Goodnight firmly, dropping the red apron over his head. ‘Let me.’

He ties it up behind, hands just brushing against his back, then steps back to consider. ‘Turn round? Much more flattering.’ His lips quirk. ‘The effect’s a little severe, but then that’s appropriate, I feel.’

‘That sounds like an insult,’ says Billy, and there it is, the slight hint of an answering smile.

‘Look, just give it some thought. And now you’re wearing it, get me some caffeine to help me through the figures before you go: I’ll have a–’ ‘double macchiato and don’t go to town on the foam,’ says Billy, and as Goodnight’s looking at the accounts again it takes a moment to register. He looks at Billy’s back, but he’s intent on the task. Nothing he can think of to say seems remotely wise, so he bends his head over the papers again. Billy sets a cup down beside him and says, ‘That’s me,’ and Goodnight says, ‘Have a good evening,’ without looking up. Only when Billy’s gone out the back does he reach out a hand for his coffee and find that it’s not one of their rainbow cups but a cardboard takeout cup. Surprised, he picks it up and sees that it has his name written on it, _Goody_ underlined with a squiggly flourish: underneath is a neat B.

He’s still holding it when instead of the expected slam of the door he hears footsteps and a rattle behind him, followed by the first chords of a familiar song. ‘Jack tells me,’ says Billy, leaning on the back of his chair, ‘that you’re the only person in the northern hemisphere who likes _Long John Silver_.’

‘ _Aerie_ is a work of genius,’ says Goodnight faintly, skin hypersensitive to the warm breath tickling his neck.

‘I don’t find it so easy to talk to most people. And I’m working on it.’

‘Well, maybe,’ says Goodnight cautiously, ‘I could talk a bit less and you could talk a bit more, and we could do it somewhere that isn’t here.’

‘I’d like that,’ says Billy, ‘but there is one problem.’ His hands slide onto Goodnight’s shoulders. ‘Inappropriate workplace relationships.’

‘I think you should let me worry about that,’ says Goodnight, standing up. He comes face to face with a Billy he’s never seen close to before, open, unguarded, eyes bright, and as Grace’s vocals dip and soar he curls a hand around his neck and leans in. 

The ferocity of Billy’s response sends him reeling, ice shifted in an instant to raging flame: he kisses hard and hungry, pulling Goodnight close with an edge of desperation, and Goodnight forgets about _inappropriate_ , forgets about everything except the hand closing tight in his hair, easing his head back so Billy can bite at his throat, the nails digging into his back as Billy grinds against him. He sinks his hands into Billy’s closely-knotted hair and gives back as hard as he gets, and the thought of it, that underneath the poise and the carefully neutral clothes, the shell of self-control was this floodtide of need, wrings a groan from him. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes before a sudden bang on the window brings them out of it, and he pulls back, dizzy and breathless. ‘If this is what happens when you talk to people, I’m beginning to understand.’

Billy’s flushed, eyes dark. ‘Moderate’s not in my repertoire, Goody. All or nothing.’

‘No complaints,’ says Goodnight huskily, fingers at the collar of Billy’s shirt, ‘and anywhere else I’d be suggesting we continue on the sofa, but maybe not onstage in a lit-up shop window.’ He nips at the hollow of this throat to feel him shiver, and Billy presses against him. ‘My place is close.’

‘Same terrible music, though?’

‘Have you learnt nothing?’ asks Goodnight.

 

_Three months later:_

‘What do you think?’ asks Goodnight, crunching over the dirty wooden floor to the back doors and throwing them open. ‘Even has a backyard – we can get some greenery, maybe shade it over a bit – outdoor space is what we were always missing.’

‘I turn my back for five minutes, says Sam, ‘and you start getting ideas.’

‘Ideas I’ve always had, and you’re my chief enabler: what I have this time is a leasable site.’

Sam’s still in his customary head-to-toe black, and he seems unchanged unless you get close enough to see the new lines that have set around his mouth. He follows Goodnight to stand in the doorway and survey the yard, currently full of abandoned chairs and lumber. ‘No, it’s great – way better located.’

‘Vas put me onto it; the rent’s hardly much more. We’d need some more furniture…’

‘Be back and forth for a while yet,’ says Sam. ‘Should give me time to help out a bit. Not changing the name, though?’

‘Never,’ says Goodnight, bumping his shoulder, ‘I’ve had that Avalon Ballroom poster since I was fifteen, and some things are sacred.’

He closes the door again and leads the way to the front. ‘We can take this place from the end of the month, and moving shouldn’t be too difficult if we get all hands.’ 

 

He turns out the lights and locks the door behind them. ‘Bar’s just down the street here.’ As they walk down past emptying offices and closing stores he looks at Sam sideways. ‘You OK with this? Doesn’t need to be in at the deep end if you don’t want.’

‘Hardly had much company this last while – deep end’s fine by me. Besides, I trust my reputation precedes me?’

‘No need to worry on that score,’ says Goodnight, ‘they’ve heard all about you.’

‘Uhuh. You tell them the story about the finger?’

‘Yup. And the one about the garbage disposal.’

‘Not left me much play here, Goody.'

‘There’s always the one about the stairwell. Never had the stomach to tell that.’

‘I’m sure that will work well as a conversational opener,’ says Sam, dry as ever. 

 

The new place is all exposed brick, metal airducts and microbrews: as they wait to be served Sam asks, ‘Did you know Emma mentioned transferring back here too?’

‘Think she will?’

‘Early days. But at least she’s talking about it.’

‘This way,’ says Goodnight, taking his beer and spotting their group around a table near the back: Jack is throwing his head back to laugh with Red and Vas, and Josh saying something to Billy, who looks irritated even from behind. 

As the two of them come up Jack cries, ‘Sam!’ and leaps to his feet, making the table lurch dangerously; Billy turns around, and the way his face lights up makes Goodnight’s heart contract. Beside him Sam mutters, ‘OK, point taken there, Robicheaux’.

Goodnight slides in next to him, Billy's arm winding round his waist, and announces to the circle of faces, ‘Guys, meet Sam Chisolm.’

 

_And:_

Goodnight turns his key in the lock and creases into a smile at the strains of music winding faintly in from the far end of the apartment. He drops his bags and takes in the state of the kitchen. It’s a bomb site of used pans, vegetable peelings and empty packages: quite how one man on his own can generate so much disorder simply from fixing lunch is beyond his imagining. There’s the odd sign that some vague effort has been made to clean up – a phalanx of half-full mugs and bowls with cereal dried inside harvested from the rest of the apartment – but the effort seems to have run out before they got as far as the dishwasher. Goodnight goes down the hallway, casting a glance into the bedroom which looks as though a pair of wolverines had a fight in there, and finds his _cher_ still at work in the smaller room that he’s claimed as an office. 

Billy’s hands on the keyboard of his laptop are neat and elegant, but they’re the single orderly point in a radiating chaos of books, layered one on top of each other or interwoven to mark pages, heaps of notes and handouts, printed chapters scribbled over with comments in a rainbow of inks. His feet, in woolly socks, are resting on a pile of threadbare volumes bristling with coloured bookmarks next to abandoned plates and glasses, a scattered spray of index cards and some odd items of clothing. He’s wearing his heavy black-rimmed glasses, and as ever _impossibly cute_ comes to Goodnight’s mind, though he’ll go to his grave without saying it. 

‘How can one person create this much mess in just one day?’ he marvels instead, brushing gently over the nape of Billy’s neck.

‘My mind’s on higher things,’ says Billy, taking off his glasses and spinning the chair round so he can haul him in by the belt loops. ‘How’s the shop?’

‘Great guns,’ says Goodnight, sliding his hands down the back of Billy’s shirt to stroke warm skin. ‘New location’s a gift. What happened in the bedroom?’

‘Pair of wolverines had a fight in there,’ says Billy, pushing up Goodnight’s T-shirt to mouth at his stomach.

‘Can’t get over how often that happens,’ says Goodnight dreamily, digging his fingers into Billy’s hair as two hands grab his ass. 

Billy tips the chair off balance, dragging them both down onto the cluttered floor. ‘You do realise,’ he asks, as he strips off first Goodnight’s shirt, then his own, ‘that at least half the clothes in here are yours?’

‘Wouldn’t have it any other way,’ murmurs Goodnight, licking hotly up his neck, and he closes his eyes as his own singular wave of chaos rolls him onto his back and drags him under to drown.

**Author's Note:**

> Almost everything in this fic is true.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Gravity as a Weak Force](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11073360) by [Fontainebleau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fontainebleau/pseuds/Fontainebleau)




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